Poor Nerves
by TheQueenofBooks1000
Summary: A reflection of a man about the wife he was not in love with. Slight angst.


**Hello, fellow Jane Austen fans! I finally decided to write fanfiction after reading Pride and Prejudice for the fifty-five thousandth time.**

**I hope you guys will like this. First P and P fic, so go easy on me, please. :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT JANE AUSTEN (OBVIOUSLY), AND I DON'T OWN SOMETHING AS MAGNIFICENT AS PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.**

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Longbourn was silent.

Its sole occupant, the sardonic Mr. Bennet, had locked himself inside his one refuge, the library, although it was clear that his use for that particular chamber was not one that you would expect of his nature, for he did not do any reading. He had _not_ touched a single volume of his business books, inspected the caricature of some forgotten person whose works ended up with him for a tiny sum, or, even though he would seldom admit it, buried himself in novels, a hidden pleasure of his, for it was a welcome change to step from his reality of hysterical wives and impertinent daughters to one where he could be a pirate, a lover, or even a bandit.

Now, he would have traded all his books for that former reality to return.

Mouth set in a grim line, he stared lifelessly _at _the window and not _out _of it, for he could be staring at a beautiful landscape or a bloody revolution from beyond the glass and he would be none the wiser about the matter.

He really despised silence.

No more gentle speeches from Jane, no more lively banter from Lizzy, no more unwarranted sermons from Mary (who had surprisingly caught the eye of a widowed clergyman, much to Mr. Bennet's chagrin, who, despite himself, always thought that Mary would be the one daughter that would stay with her parents), no more of Kitty and Lydia's vapid exchanges about bonnets and other frivolity.

And no more of Mrs. Bennet's _poor nerves._

Perhaps that was the worst out of all.

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on rough canvas, settled above his fireplace. The artwork was crudely done and yellowed with age. He smiled, remembering his wife's horror when he had it attached there, begging him to take it down, for what would their guests think, and has he really been out of his senses?

Mr. Bennet had merely smiled, and his lady was left to flutter anxiously with her poor nerves.

The portrait was done by his mother, bless her soul. She took one look of her new daughter, wordlessly scribbled her countenance on the canvas using a unique blend of acrylic and charcoal.

"There," the old lady had said. "Now you will remember like this, before the age will be reflected on her features."

That was five and twenty years ago, back when he still deluded himself into thinking that he was hopelessly in love with the handsome lady that Mrs. Bennet was, and woke up years later only to realize that he was married to the most ridiculous woman in all of Hertfordshire, and very likely the world. She was the constant source of censure from his neighbors, yet he bore it with indifference. There was nothing he could do about it, and in a way, he did love her. For one thing, she was a living source of absurdity, one thing that he always took delight and amusement from.

He also loved her because of his gratitude. She had given him Janey, Lizzy, Mary, Kitty, and...yes, he was even thankful to his wife for bearing a squalling and wailing little Lydia to the world. Those five treasures were the greatest gifts she could have given him, though they were not the sons they had hoped for. He had kissed her after each birth, honestly the only time during their marriage in which he showed affection towards her, and she had smiled wearily at him, though tears brimmed her eyes from both the pain of childbirth and the crushing realization that it was becoming likely for Longbourn to be entailed away from their children.

Finally, he loved her simply because she was _there. _Although he had once yearned for domestic happiness, he found that he would not have traded her for anything. She provided companionship, and occasionally warmth.

One instance lurked in his memory. It was after Jane and Elizabeth's wedding to their respective gentlemen. Though thrilled that they had managed to marry for both love and fortune, he was saddened to have lost his two favorite daughters on the same day.

One cannot imagine his astonishment when, for the first time in sixteen years, Mrs. Bennet entered his bedchamber, dressed only in her nightclothes.

"Mrs. Bennet!" he had exclaimed, his face coloring to have been witnessed in such an attire as his.

"My dearest John."

His face colored even more, which he had initially thought was impossible. The blush staining his cheeks was visible even in the dim light of the flickering candle near his bed. Never had his wife called him by his Christian name, not even in their engagement days. Before he could open his mouth, Mrs. Bennet rushed to his arms, tears streaming down her face and sobs wracking her body.

"What in heaven's name is the matter?" he cried.

Between sobs, she mumbled, "My beautiful Jane and my clever Lizzy...they're gone, Mr. Bennet!"

Mr. Bennet was stunned. Since when did his wife show regard towards their daughters other than that of pushing them in the paths of men looking for wives?

"Fanny."

Mrs. Bennet looked at her through lashes heavy with tears. "How dare you address me thus," she sobbed. "You have no consideration to my poor nerves."

Mr. Bennet smiled. "I think, madam, that it's only fair, for you have also addressed me improperly," he teased. "All is fair in love and war."

She squinted at him. "What are you babbling about?"

He sighed. "It's getting late, Mrs. Bennet. What brings you here?"

"I needed comfort."

"What for? After all, our daughters have married excessively wealthy men. Did you not want it thus?"

Her eyes brightened and he smiled at the sight. "I suppose," she sniffed, "but I will not be at peace until Kitty and Mary find men of their own!"

Mr. Bennet threw his head back and laughed. "Woman, I'm afraid that you will never be satisfied. Just be glad that, upon my demise, you will have lovely homes to choose from." He paused dramatically. "Unless, _I _will be the survivor."

Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes. "Foolish man. You know that will never be."

"No, indeed," he said with a grin, "for you decrease the span of my life every time you go on about your nerves."

And for the first time in several years, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet slept in the same room, each reassured and comforted.

Tears fell from Mr. Bennet's eyes and rolled past a wrinkled cheek, remembering his jest about outliving his wife. If only that was not the case. If only he was not alone, imprisoned by walls of books that were once his freedom.

Finally, he removed himself from the worn armchair and stared at his deceased wife above the fireplace one last time. "Farewell, Mrs. Bennet," he said softly. He shut the door and ordered the butler, the only other person in the house since he was not in need of maids any longer, to send for the carriage. He was going to Mary Bertram's parsonage, stop by Catherine Wood's estate, then pay his lovely Jane Bingley a visit. And of course, he would surprise his favorite little Elizabeth Darcy with an unannounced trip to Pemberley.

Maybe he would even go to Lydia Wickham's little home. Lydia, after all, was Fanny's favorite, and he knew that his youngest daughter had been grieved when he heard of the news.

He smiled at the thought of his progeny, when he was in the safety of his carriage. And, if all goes well, maybe he would collect each of his little girls and bring them to Longbourn, just for old-time's sake. He did miss the chaos that littered his home, in the form of his daughters.

And his wife.

He looked out the window. He might not have been _in love _with his wife, but he did, indeed completely and undoubtedly love her.

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**So...how was that? For some reason, after swooning over Mr. Darcy, _this _Mr. Bennet-centric fic came out. Well, anyway, thank you for reading and please leave a review! :)**


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